In The Presence

By Irony Illuminator

An angry crowd gathered outside Jerusalem, moving at a sluggish pace. The worn path that wound away from the city was packed with observers and participants in the cruel drama that was unfolding. Furious shouts echoed in the surrounding countryside.

In the center of the chaos, like the eye of a storm, there was a man. He stumbled down that worn path, alone and weak. The burden he bore on his wounded back was impossibly heavy: two enormous, solid beams lashed together.

He struggled on by himself, but it was too much for any one person to bear.

Movement ground to a halt and outraged protests rang out from the crowd. A man in a uniform materialized from the sidelines, his cold, deeply lined face set in a scowl of displeasure. After surveying the crowds around him as if searching for someone, the centurion strode forward; the mass of people parted, making way for him.

“You! You there! Come!” he shouted at a man wandering on the fringe of the crowd. “Come NOW!”

The man, simply dressed and appearing to be very confused, hurried forward, obeying the Roman’s command.

“Bear this cross,” the centurion said flatly. “Bear it until the ‘Christ’ can carry it himself.” He spit in the wounded man’s direction.

The man from the fringe of the crowd, one Simon of Cyrene, took a hesitant step forward, his eyes taking in the situation before him.

“Hurry up, you peasant! We don’t have all day!” another Roman shouted irritably. Simon hastily took the wounded man’s position beneath the heavy cross, exhaling sharply as he did so.

It was very heavy.

“MOVE!” the entire crowd seemed to scream as one. Simon took one step, and then another, shifting his newfound burden until he was no longer wobbling back and forth on the path. The former bearer of the cross walked beside him, weaving in exhaustion.

---

The top of Golgotha’s hill seemed so very far away; Simon could feel sweat collecting on his neck and sliding down his back, dampening his tunic.

He glanced over at the man next to him and stared, for it was truly a painful sight to behold.

A crown of thorns was shoved down on the man’s head, and blood was streaming from gashes at his temples. A torn robe was thrown over his slight shoulders, almost as a mockery, it seemed. Evidence of numerous floggings were visible, even in spite of that torn garment.

Simon winced. He did not fully understand what was going on; he had been on his way through Jerusalem, and had missed the events of the past few days that would have explained this man’s fate to him.

Shifting the cross once more, (they were nearing the hilltop, slowly but surely) Simon took another glance at the man and froze, suddenly.

Those eyes…

Large, dark eyes, full of pain and suffering. And yet, at the same time, though it seemed impossible, full of love and compassion as well.

Tears tracked down the weary face of the man, mixing with his blood.

Simon wanted to weep himself.

“Keep moving, peasant,” one of the centurions boomed, and Simon started forward again with a jerk. His own tears pricked his eyelids.

Never had the path to Golgotha seemed so long.

---

The crowds had moved past him, leaving him behind. Simon was grateful. The cross had been lifted roughly from his shoulders, and cast flat on the ground. The man with the dark eyes had been stretched across it, stakes driven through his hands and feet.

Simon had turned and hurried away, unable to watch any longer.

So now he stood at a distance and watched, eyes fixed on the stark figure that roughly hewn, wooden cross made against the darkening sky. The mocking insults of the crowd rang in his ears until he wished he could block everything out, forever.

Thunder rumbled nearby; lightning flashed its warning.

A cry of pain rose above the clamor of the crowd.

And suddenly, all was silent.

The air seemed thick, oppressive. Even the gathering storm was quiet for a moment.

Simon felt numb. He had heard of this man, this man who was now dead.

‘Christ,’ the centurion had called him.

Jesus of Nazareth, the carpenter’s son, who worked miracles.

Some said, the Messiah.

Tortured. Humiliated. Falsely accused. …Crucified. Dead.

And for just one moment, when Simon had looked into Jesus’ eyes… He’d seen it there. Proof. He’d felt it in his heart. He knew it in his soul.

For just one moment, he was in the presence of the Son.